


Heart Of Ice

by ashallee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x01, F/M, Reunions, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 20:58:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashallee/pseuds/ashallee
Summary: "...She stood tall and proud, as regal as any queen. Her posture as straight as it ever was, her face betraying nothing, her eyes distant and hardened. Here, he saw, she was no Little Bird anymore. Here she was a Wolf."A reunion piece (one among many).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Had this in my head for a while. Enjoy!

Petyr Baelish took her hand to direct her attention to him. “You must have heirs, Lady Sansa, and you must have them soon.” He smiled his oily smile, and she knew he was thinking again of him marrying her. He had pressed his suit many times since they had taken Winterfell. “It is your duty.”

“Do not remind me of my duty. I have done my duty, many times over, Lord Baelish,” she replied coldly to Littlefinger. He remained by her side despite no longer being useful, following her like a dog. _No, not like a dog_ , she thought. Dogs were loyal, protective. She knew of one in particular, who watched over her when no one else would. Sansa suddenly found it strange that thoughts the Hound would enter her mind at this moment. She didn't know if he lived or died, and she realized she hadn't thought of him since returning home. Forcing away the memories of him, she turned to the Lords and spoke louder. “I know what it is that I must do. I know that, through me, Stark blood must endure. But know this, my fellow Northerners: I will not marry again. Not unless it is to a man of my own choosing.”

Lord Glover stood, hold his voice beseeching but laced with impatience. “My Lady, you do not understand…”

“I am still young, Lord Glover. I have many years left before I can no longer bear children, and I intend to rule alone until that time, and perhaps, not even then shall I give up my seat.” Sansa stared down the group of her countryfolk assembled in the hall at Winterfell, her heart beating in its protective shell of ice, a shell she was determined no one would pierce. “My brother Jon will support me in this, should any of you speak against my wishes. I have earned the right to my independence, and I will not relinquish it to a man who seeks to rule Winterfell and me.”

She left without another word, not waiting to hear their protests again, and ran to the comfort of her chambers. She would not let them pressure her into another marriage. She wasn’t sure she wanted another husband, or even needed one; the North was secure with Jon as it’s king, and she was managing capably in his absence. The minor worries of minor lords didn’t phase her. She was free for the first time since she first left Winterfell, and Sansa Stark was damned sure she wouldn’t let anyone take that away from her.


	2. Chapter 2

If it wasn't for the flaming hair, he wouldn't have recognized her.

She stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, her face pinched in thought. Taller now, for she was older. The line of her profile was Tully to be sure, like her mother. But when a messenger whispered in her ear and pointed into the yard at the party that had just arrived to Winterfell, the eyes that locked with Sandor Clegane’s were pure Stark.

She pursed her lips as she looked at him, and he huddled further into his cloak, tearing his eyes away. Her gaze was cold and hard, unsettling his already shaky confidence. If it wasn’t for King Snow, he wouldn’t be anywhere near here; Jon had sent them to Winterfell to rest, gather provisions, and plan strategies before the war. Sansa Stark was an unwelcome surprise. He looked up again and saw she had gone, and he released the air in his chest he hadn't realized he was holding.

They were escorted into the Great Hall, where Sansa stood at the head table, occupying the seat of the Lord of Winterfell. Sandor took a good look at her now, as she looked down her nose at the men, her eyes as blue as the ice that surrounded them. She stood tall and proud, as regal as any queen. Her posture as straight as it ever was, her face betraying nothing, her eyes distant and hardened. Here, he saw, she was no Little Bird anymore.

Here she was a Wolf.

“Welcome, gentlemen, to Winterfell.” He would have fallen to his knees at the sound of her voice, if he wasn’t so stunned. Her childish timbre was gone, the light sweet way she spoke was gone. Her words were strong, the sound echoing off the walls of her home. “I am Sansa Stark, regent for my brother Jon Snow, the King in the North. You are welcome to our hearth and home.” She walked to the group and they bowed in unison, Sandor rising stiffly. She didn’t pay him any particular attention, but surely she remembered him. His face was not an easy one to forget.

“My Lady,” Gendry Waters acknowledged. “We thank you most humbly for your welcome.”

She nodded at each of them with an aloof smile until she came face to face with the Hound. Then her grin was genuine. “Sandor Clegane. You’re alive.” Her eyes sparked slightly, a small flint in the ice that he saw there. “I'm glad.”

“And you, Little--” He stopped himself, glancing at his companions in embarrassment. The name he had for her no longer suited her. He was still overcome with the shock that a woman stood before him now; he somehow never stopped picturing her as a child. “Lady Sansa,” he grunted in agreement. “You look...well.”

He could have taken a knife and carved his bloody guts out after he had spoken. He sounded pathetic. After years of wondering, hoping...she stood in front of him now and he could barely manage to speak. He coughed and looked away from her, the light in her eyes growing too bright.

Interrupting their reunion, he heard the jingling of chainmail approaching, and looked up to see that giant woman who left him for dead.

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne of Tarth’s voice was laced with warning, as if she could read his thoughts. “Your brother is asking for you. He says it's urgent.”.

Sansa nodded and then clapped her hands, calling for her steward. “We will find room for all of you while you are at Winterfell. The steward will show you where you may bathe and change, for you all surely need rest after such a journey; if you have no other clothes, fresh garments will be brought to you. I've no doubt you must be famished.” She turned to the steward again and ordered that food be prepared and ready once they had a chance to settle in. “I will be happy to speak to all of you later. Most especially you, Ser Sandor.”

 _I am no Ser_ , he wanted to remind her, but the corners of her mouth quirked upward and she swept out of the hall before he could say the words.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor hadn't realized how hungry he was when the bowl of stew was placed in front of him. He decided not to wait for anyone else to show up, but instead went right to the empty hall and sat down wearily at one of the tables. He hadn't seen Sansa since she spoke to him, and he was glad of it. He wasn't sure what to make of the change he saw in her; she was in her element, it seemed, up here in the North. He always knew the little bird was a brave thing, but seeing her now, her entire being seemed as cold as Winterfell. It was as though she created her own armour, one of ice and snow, and she was determined to never let anyone pierce it. How it had changed, he thought a little sadly, that he used to intimidate her and now she terrified him.

He filled his mouth with stew, only taking a moment to savour the richness of it before barely chewing the rest, when he heard light footsteps from beside him. Glancing up, mouth full, he saw Sansa standing at his side, and he struggled to stand in her presence while looking dignified. She let out a breathy little chuckle and raised her hand, ordering him to sit as she took her place across the table from him. Sandor was suddenly glad he decided to wash the filth of the road off of himself before coming to eat, and he waited in silence before lifting the spoon to his mouth again, unable to look directly at the lady's face.

“You must be starved,” Sansa observed, watching him devour his meal. “I'm sorry there isn't anything better.”

Sandor cleared his throat. “Tastes better than anything I've had in a long while, Lady Stark.”

“Good. You may be sick of stew, though, once you've had it for weeks straight. What I wouldn't give for--”

“Lemon cakes?” Sandor couldn't help remembering, but Sansa shook her head.

“I've grown to hate the taste of lemon. I've grown to hate a lot of the things I used to love. They remind me of the child I used to be, when all I thought about was leaving this place.” She glanced around at the walls, her eyes softening at their sight. “I would rather die than be anywhere but Winterfell.” Sandor felt his mouth twist at the mention of her death. He didn't want to think about that, not after thinking she was dead for so long. Then, she sighed deeply. “I should have gone with you.”

He looked up at her. “What?”

“That night of the Blackwater. You asked me to run away with you.”

“Not _with_ me…” He grunted again, but a blush stained his cheeks.

“All the same, I should have gone with you. Or you should have tossed me over your shoulder and hauled me off.”

“One Stark girl was enough. Though I gather you would have been less of a headache than your sister.” He rolled his shoulders and grunted. “I don't think you would have been any better off with me.”

“You'd think that? But then, you never had to be married to Ramsay Bolton. That, in my experience, was far worse than anything that you could have done.”

Sandor immediately sobered, imagining the horrible things that she went through, married to that bastard Bolton, and his vision went red with rage. “What did he do to you?”

“It doesn't matter anymore.” She looked past him, as if seeing the bastard over his shoulder. “Ramsay is dead,” she murmured. He let out a breath very slowly, willing his hands to stop shaking.

“Good.” He lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth, but stopped. “On the battlefield?”

“In a cell. Eaten alive by his own hounds.”

Her voice held an odd chill and her mouth curled into the ghost of a smile, causing him to blink in surprise. She was definitely not the same little girl he knew.

“I suppose, in the end, one could say that you saved me. Again.” Her smile was softer now, warming him to his bones. “You always watched over me.”

He grunted to hide the flush that spread up his neck. “You don't need me for that anymore. You've got her now,” he jerked his chin in Brienne’s direction, who stared at him with suspicion. “And she looks like she wants to finish what she started.”

“Lady Brienne knows her place,” Sansa assured him. “I would not willingly let someone harm you.”

Sandor looked down into his stew, keeping his eyes locked on the pieces of beef and peas that floated there, anywhere but her face. “I'm sorry I couldn't do the same for you.” They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the workers and the crackling of the fire. “I would have thought to see that Baelish bastard slithering around,” he said, changing the subject. Littlefucker, he remembered, was supposed to have been by Sansa's side since she arrived home.

“Littlefinger?” Sansa said the name in surprise. “He's gone.”

“Never did have the stomach for a fight, that coward.”

“I meant that he is dead.”

“By whose hand?”

Sansa shook her head, her eyes downcast. “I gave the judgement. Arya slit his throat.”

Sandor chuckled to himself. “I'll bet she enjoyed it, too. What was the judgement, Lady?”

“Too many to name in one night.”

He grunted again. “I would have killed him myself for what he'd done to you and your family.”

“My family is here despite Littlefinger. Though his influence is still apparent; before we had him killed, he agitated the lords of the North into thinking that the Stark line may die. And now, it seems, I have become the solution for that problem.”

Sandor cleared his throat. “So, you must marry again?”

“It would seem so.” She said it casually, as if to hide her displeasure, but it made him clear his throat again, forcefully this time.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” He tried to sound as casual as she, but she glanced at him, another smile hovering on her lips, but just barely.

“Do _you_?” Her question stunned him into silence, and she let out a little breathy laugh at his expense. “Lord Baelish had been pressing his suit…”

Sandor grunted. “I'll bet he did.” He turned his head away but not before Sansa heard him murmur under his breath, “ _That cunt_.”

Sansa had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing, but a giggle escaped nonetheless, eliciting a reluctant smirk from him. “But I would not marry again. Unless it is to a man worthy of me. So few of them are left.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “None of them deserve you.”

She smiled at him, her face glowing among the candlelight, and stood, leaving him alone to finish the rest of his meal in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favourite chapter to write, mostly because of Sandor's and Tormund's conversation in 7x06. Especially the "It's gingers I hate" line.
> 
> The fandom remembers, Sandor Clegane.

“I thought you hated gingers.”

Sandor nearly snapped his neck to look at the wildling, who smirked knowingly. What Sandor wouldn’t give to rip his lips off.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Tormund pointed boldly at Sansa. “Is she the reason why?”

“Put your fucking hand down!” He snarled, but Tormund seemed to enjoy Sandor’s embarrassment. “I’ll cut your throat if you say another word.”

Tormund laughed, unfazed by Sandor’s threat. “You can’t seem to stay away from fire, can you, Clegane?” He let out a low whistle. “How badly did she burn you?”

“She didn’t,” Sandor mumbled. He shifted away as Tormund circled around the table, trying to catch his eye. “She was no more than a child when I knew her.”

“Not a child anymore,” Tormund replied, raising his eyebrow. “Have you had her yet?”

Sandor stood, unable to control his anger any longer and grabbed Tormund by the collar, leaning close to him and looking him straight in the eye. “If I ever hear you talk about her like that again, I will kill you. I don’t care if you’re the king’s favourite Wildling; I've killed for Lady Stark's honour before, and I’ll do it again.”

“No need to get fussy, Dog,” Tormund raised his hands in surrender. “You care for her, no? I can see it. Your eyes aren’t so sad when she’s around.”

Sandor let him go, but still stood close. “Shut your mouth, before someone hears you.” There was less of a threat in his voice, so Tormund continued on.

“There is no shame in caring for a woman. There's no shame in talking about it either. Why don't you tell her?”

Appalled at the suggestion, Sandor sat down heavily, making a loud thud on the bench. “She would never have me,” he whispered helplessly.

“Why? Because your face looks like roasted pig fat?” Tormund chuckled. “I've seen better-looking men than you, and they were all fuckers. Except for Jon.”

“That's because you want his cock,” Sandor mumbled, and Tormund roared with laughter.

“Funny dog-man. The lady thinks highly of you, that I can clearly see. I can also see that she cares for you, as a woman should. And she _is_ a woman now. A woman who needs a good man after all the bastards she's been with.” He paused. “What happened between you and her anyway?”

Sandor scoffed. “I was the King's dog. They treated her like shit, and I hated the lot of them for it. I just wanted to keep her safe, but she wouldn't let me, so I ran. Too much of a coward.”

Tormund frowned at Sandor’s defeated tone, and clasped his grip around the Hound’s slumped shoulder. “You are no coward, Sandor Clegane.” Tormund assured him with feeling. “You would be good to her?” Sandor could only shrug in response. If he spoke he would break. “Then _tell_ her!”

Sandor watched Sansa as she adjusted her gloves, the leather fabric like a second skin on her fingers. The sudden urge to feel her hand in his too much to bear. “She would never have me,” he repeated again. Tormund shook his head in frustration and was about to argue again before the blow of battle horns sounded in alarm and the sound of chaos surrounded them as men prepared for war.

The Wildling took up Sandor's axe and handed it to him. “Let us hope you're not as useless on the battlefield as you are now."


	5. Chapter 5

“Sandor Clegane,” Sansa called out to him. She stood on the battlements, watching the lines of the army walk forth past the gates to meet the dead when she heard the Hound's heavy footsteps approaching her. “You are leaving now?”

“The dead don't wait, Lady.”

“I see. And why aren't you down there with my brother?”

She saw him square his shoulders, his face as grim as though she was a Wight who stood before him. “I have come to tell you that...that I…” he stammered as she stared at him, waiting for what he might say. “Fuck me, I can't say it.”

“Say what?” Sansa became alarmed at how his face suddenly turned pale. “Sandor--”

“I may die. I may die and never see you again, Sansa Stark. I just wanted to…” She felt his eyes roaming over her face, her hair, her entire body, as if he was committing the sight to memory.

“You won't die,” Sansa whispered, her heart beating quickly as he stared at her. The sudden thought of him lying among thousands of bodies in the middle of a field made breathing difficult. “You _can't_.”

“It's war, Lady. Men die, and I might be one of the unlucky fuckers who do. I just wanted...one last look at you. One happy memory to take to the grave with me.” Sandor's words came forth in a rush, as though they couldn't be stopped. “To remember you always as this, as Sansa Stark of Winterfell. As the wolf you are now, not a little bird any longer. A beautiful, strong wolf--”

Before she could stop herself, she took his face into her hands and kissed him. Sansa held him to her, feeling him try to pull away, but she didn't let him. She felt her own tears mingling with his as he gripped her to him, their kisses turning fierce and urgent, as though he was trying to make up for lost time. But then just as he started, he pushed away from her and loosened his grip on her arms.

“I've never…” he began, breathing raggedly. “I've never been with the likes of you. Only ever been with whores.” Sansa thought he would leave her then, but he looked down into her eyes and pulled her close to him, cupping her face in his two large hands. “I'm afraid I'll hurt you.”

The intensity of his words coupled with the scenes she imagined were playing in his mind: her nights with Ramsay, her entire betrothal to Joffery, the constant pressure of Littlefinger’s shadow. His gaze bore into hers, and he conveyed a statement so strong and true that he needn't even say it aloud:

_Turn away, Little Bird, or stay with me._

He was giving her a choice.

Sansa sobbed, her restraint collapsing and making her stoic facade give way to the frightened little girl she so desperately tried to keep hidden away. She felt her chest hurt as she finally released the pain she kept buried deep inside of her, and she buried her face into Sandor’s tunic, soaking it with her tears. His great arms circled her into his embrace, pulling her closer to him, if such a thing were possible. That this giant of a man, ferocious and frightening, should treat her better than any man aside from her father and brothers made the ice around her heart melt away completely. He cradled her gently and murmured assurances in her ear until she finally stopped, her body shuddering from exhaustion.

“Sandor,” Sansa whispered into his chest. “I cannot give myself to you. Not that way. Not yet.”

She felt him sigh, but looking up, she saw an expression of relief. “No, Little Bird.”

“I need time. Things are still…raw.” Sansa reached her hand up and touched the scarred face, so beloved to her now. “But you won't hurt me.” She smiled up at him as she spoke, hoping he still had the memory of her saying it at King’s Landing. He did, it seemed, and he chuckled, kissing her palm.

“No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you.”

Sansa moved closer, leaning her head against his broad shoulder. His arms came around her, enveloping the both of them in his cloak and the two of them stood against the bracing cold until she whispered, “Come back, Sandor. After this is all over, promise you'll come back to me.”

He tightened his arms around her. “Dead or alive...Sansa.”

She held onto the memory of the sound of her name from his lips as she watched him go. He didn't kiss her again, but he did turn back before he rode through the gates. She stood on the battlements, standing tall and proud for him, so he would know where to look when he came back to Winterfell.

When he came back home to her.


End file.
